


The (Somewhat) Serious Bride

by AnythingThrice



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Princess Bride Fusion, Fantasy, Fictional kidnapping murder plots and mayhem, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Injury, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Story within a Story, Storytelling, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-21 09:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10682238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingThrice/pseuds/AnythingThrice
Summary: While laid up in hospital for doing something well-intended but ill-advised, a professional athlete is treated to the premiere reading of a story calledThe (Somewhat) Serious Bride,a strange and frankly ridiculous tale of romance, adventure, and, in the words of one of its authors, 'so much dumb hockey stuff, oh my god I can’t wait to see Jonny's face.'





	The (Somewhat) Serious Bride

**Author's Note:**

> I used the film _The Princess Bride_ as well as [a draft of the 1987 shooting script](http://www.imsdb.com/scripts/Princess-Bride,-The.html) by William Goldman (the author of the book on which the film was based) as my source canon for the movie side of things. While I didn’t follow it verbatim, I did borrow some of the language and dialogue patterns, as well as the general plot progression for the in-story side of things. As for the 1988 (and other hockey people) side of things, this is set in an unspecified near-future and is 110% fiction. I'm sure the eponyms of the necessary villains in this story are lovely people in real life. I mean it. (Anybody want a peanut?)
> 
> Jonny is using a patient communication [EZ picture board](http://www.vidatak.com/ezboards.html) type deal at first, which features a variety of pictographs and stock phrases used in medical settings as well as numbers, common punctuation, and the alphabet for spelling words out.
> 
> Thank you to allthebros for running the fest and welcoming me to it, and to my bewildered peanut gallery for your help! <3

* * *

The (Somewhat) Serious Bride, a KaneSquared Production

Jonathan was raised on a small farm in a remote corner of Manitoba. He was handsome, hard-working, and totally stacked in the back. It was said that his gaze alone could make the most stubborn chickens lay. His favorite pastimes were playing pond hockey in winter, tending his mother's kitchen garden, and tormenting the American boy who helped with the seasonal work. His name was Patrick, but Jonathan never called him that.

— _Some beginning, huh?_

— **O-K**

— _Well hang in there, crankypants, it's about to get better._

Patrick was clever and quick, with a steady pair of hands – not to mention lovely blue eyes and a killer smile – and nothing seemed to give Jonathan as much pleasure as ordering him around.

'Farm Boy,' he'd say, 'come look at the sloppy binding on these sheaves. I know you can do better. I want them all re-tied by morning.' Or, 'You keep trying to rush poor Bess like that, Farm Boy, and you're liable to get yourself kicked in the head. Pass me the damn bucket and let me show you how it's done.'

Patrick often rolled his eyes behind Jonathan's back, and sometimes he'd have to bite his tongue to avoid saying something rude. Eventually, though, because Jonathan's ideas about best agricultural practices weren't entirely terrible – not to mention the fact that he always looked some combination of hilarious and sexy while demonstrating – Patrick would smile, look Jonathan straight in the eye, and answer, 'For sure, Jonny. Whatever you say.'

Every time, no matter how difficult – or seemingly pointless – the task, Patrick found himself saying, 'For sure, Jonny. Whatever you say.' 

And every time, he'd stand there grinning and slowly blinking – his lashes went on for _days_ and were one of his best features, fair maidens were forever telling him so – until Jonathan got flustered and looked away.

— _Yep, just like that…except without the eye roll._

Then, one fine spring day, Jonathan came upon Patrick splitting logs and spitting rhymes out behind the chicken coop. He'd taken off his shirt, and between the farm-chore-ripped body and slick wood chopping skills – not to mention the dope rhymes about said skills – Jonathan was struck dumb by the sheer amount of awesome on display.

— **thumbs down/no**

— _Sorry, but that's what it says. Right here, see?_

When he realized that Patrick had noticed him staring, he blurted, 'Farm boy, uh, cease this racket at once! You're upsetting the hens. Besides, you're urgently needed for…for a picnic. In the pond. _At_ the pond, I mean. With me. No excuses.'

Patrick lowered the axe, propped it against the chopping block, and walked right up to Jonathan. He studied him for a moment, noting the fierce blush and clenching fingers – not to mention the fact that Jonathan had more or less just demanded a date – then unleashed his best, sunniest smile.

This time when Patrick said, 'Sure, Jonny. Whatever you say,' Jonathan finally – _finally_ – realized that what he really meant was, 'You're ridiculous and amazing, and if you want me, I'm all yours.' He realized, too, that he felt the same about Patrick – had for some time now, if he were being honest with himself – and though their first kiss was a clumsy, sweaty affair, witnessed only by a few startled hens, the strength of their love was – '

— **I AM: feeling sick…feeling sick**

— _Shit, what's wrong? You nauseous? Faint?_

— **thumbs down/no…STOP  B-O-R-I-N-G  R-O-M-A-N-C-E  B-S WANT: more A-C-T-I-O-N**

— _Jesus, don’t scare me like that. And that's exactly where things were headed until you interrupted me._

— **thumbs down/no…L-I-K-E  S-W-O-R-D-F-I-G-H-T-S  D-R-A-G-O-N-S  F-I-S-H-I-N-G**

— _Seriously? Who wants to hear a story about dragons fishing? You are such a –_

— **WANT: nurse P-R-E-T-T-I-E-R nurse N-I-C-E-R nurse S-M-A-R-T-E**

— _Hey! Fuck you._

— **thumbs up/yes**

— _Oh my god, Jonny, you can't just… Not here. And I'm glad the happy drugs have kicked in, but that board's not a toy. Stop messing around with it and let me read._

So, Patrick and Jonathan declared their epic love, vowing – via pinky swear _and_ spit handshake – to always have one another's backs, to be honest and true, and to embark on a life of grand adventures as soon as they'd saved enough to pay off the farm and ensure their families were well looked after.

They spent that summer doing all manner of awesome, sexy things in some decidedly odd places – to spare Jonathan's poor parents; old Bess and the chickens were not so lucky – and winning prizes for the farm's products at local fairs.

After the wheat harvest, Patrick packed his few belongings. He usually picked up winter work in one of the larger towns in Ontario. This year, however, he told Jonathan of his plan to make the long journey east and south, across the Great Lakes, back to where he'd been born.

'I hear the exchange rate is better there now,' he explained. 'More money means sooner adventure time, right? Besides, I haven't seen my family since I was a kid. I want to visit my sisters, tell them all about you!'

It was a very emotional time for Jonathan, who feared he'd never see Patrick again, but after Patrick kissed away his tears –

— _You know, you keep that up you're gonna be screwed if you actually have to puke. Boy who cried wolf and all – ring a bell? Uh-huh, yeah, I thought so. Now, where was I?_

So. After reassuring him, Patrick promised he'd return, reminding Jonathan that what they had was a true, epic love, backed up by a pinky swear _and_ a spit handshake, and that that was not something that happened every day.

'No one can mess with that, Jonny. No man, no maiden, not even Death himself.'

'For sure,' Jonathan said, bowing his head and pressing his forehead against Patrick's for a moment before letting him go. 'Whatever you say.'

He held that memory close in the weeks that followed, repeating Patrick's promise each night before he went to sleep. 

Word came that Patrick made it across Lake of the Woods, then through the long series of portages along the border. But he never reached his destination. On Lake Superior, the ship he was traveling on was attacked by the Dread Pirate Quenneville, who never left his young captives alive.

When Jonathan got the news that Patrick was surely dead, he shut himself in his room and closed the curtains. For days he neither slept nor ate, and his chores went untended. When he at last came out, his parents wept at the look on his face.

'I will never love again,' he announced flatly, staring into the distance, then lumbered off to weed the turnips.

— **STOP  W-T-F?  N-O-T  C-H-E-E-R-I-N-G  M-E  U-P**

— _So? Volunteered to keep your stubborn vigilante ass awake. No one ever said anything about cheering you up. Even your mom thinks you're an idiot. She specifically called my mom to say so, and it's a sad, sad day when your own mother agrees that charging face-first into a glass door was the best of all possible outcomes. You're lucky those guys didn’t know you'd heard them and just thought you were tanked. If that door hadn’t been there, you could be facing lawsuits, even jail time, or –_

— **STOP...STOP…leave me alone…I  K-N-O-W**

— _You want me to go?_

— **thumbs down/no…don’t leave…I WANT…**

— _Jon?_

— **I WANT: to go home…I WANT: less I-G-N-O-R-A-N-T  A-H-O-L-E-S**

— _I know. I want that, too. But it’s sixteen more hours of observation, another of paperwork and placating the media, and one unassisted dump before you're released. In the meantime… Come on, don’t you want to hear the rest? Who doesn't like getting Christmas gifts early?_

— **U-G-H  F-I-N-E**

— _Keep going?_

— **thumbs up/yes**

— _That's the spirit. And just so you know, you're not going to like this next part, so maybe just…yeah, let's set this thing down for the time being._

Five years later, the capital was packed with people waiting to hear the announcement of Count Bettman's intended bride. Everyone knew the old king and his wife weren't long for the world and had no living heirs. Count Bettman had already finagled control of the royal army as well as the treasury, which meant he also oversaw most of the kingdom's hockey clubs and player contracts. It was rumored that the marriage was part of his play for the throne itself, which meant that he'd have to marry one of their own.

Just as the clock finished striking noon, Count Bettman appeared on the balcony of the castle, flanked by the old king and queen. 

'People of Canadia,' he cried, 'I know I was not raised amongst you, but after traveling far and wide on a great quest, I believe I do know what you stand for – not to mention what's best for you. A month from now the kingdom will begin its sesquicentennial celebrations. On that sundown, I shall marry one who once toiled as a commoner like yourselves, a true paragon of your peculiar culture and traditions whom I am confident you will come to admire for his ample...intangibles. Would you like to meet him?'

The crowd surged forward, making a great deal of noise – later described by the town crier as 'one-hundred percent enthusiastic cheering' – and the count's soldiers crossed their pikes to press them back. 

A door opened at the top of the grand staircase that led down to the plaza. A strapping figure appeared, resplendent in a fine beaver hat and cape, red tunic, and black hose. It was none other than Jonathan, scrubbed free of the farm dirt and dressed as a young noble.

'My good people, I present to you…Prince Jonathan!'

As if in a daze, Jonathan lifted a hand in greeting, then slowly descended the staircase. 

A strange thing happened then. With no prodding whatsoever, the crowd gave a collective sigh and fell to their knees. There were appreciative murmurs as he moved amongst them, and though he neither smiled nor encouraged them, everyone reached out to give him pats or fistbumps. Several people even swooned, a there were later rumors of spontaneous pregnancies.

— _I had nothing to do with that part, just so you know. I thought they should have pelted him with rotten cabbage. Anyways…_

As for Jonathan, he was surprised and grateful for the people's support, but his heart was broken and as cold as ice, and he could take no real pleasure in it. Although the count's position gave him the right to choose his mate – and the money he'd provided would ensure that the farm would be well cared for and that Jonathan's parents would want for nothing – Jonathan did not trust the count, nor did he love him.

In fact, despite the count's beaming assurances that Jonathan would soon grow to love him and life in the castle, he became known around court for his brooding stare and unsmiling face. Behind his back they called him 'The Serious Bride' and made lewd bets about what the count would have to bribe him with to be obliging on their wedding night.

The only thing approaching joy Jonathan felt was during his daily skate on the Canal of Sorrows. This particular canal remained frozen year-round, the legacy, some said, of old hedge magic. It had been a popular recreational spot until Count Bettman annexed it for the castle and started charging steep fees for commoners to use it. Now it was practically deserted, especially at sundown, so Jonathan was surprised when three men suddenly stepped out onto the ice in front of him. He came to a hard stop, spraying them with snow.

'What the hell?' he said. Upon closer inspection, the men did not look like ordinary townsfolk out for an evening skate. For one, they had no skates. Their smiles were missing teeth, and they stared at Jonathan with a grim intensity. Each wore a sweater with a national crest on it. There was a small Russian, a large Slovak, and a fellow Canadian whom Jonathan might have considered attractive in the right light – that being very dim light – if Patrick hadn't spoiled him for all others.

'Apologies, we are but poor lost entertainers,' the Canadian fellow said, stepping forward and making an elaborate bow. 'They call me…Verbeauty.'

'You only one call that, Steeger,' murmured the Russian with a snort.

The Slovak rolled his eyes and gave Jonathan a pained smile. 'Can you show us which way to the castle, please?'

'It's about a twenty minute hard skate thataway,' Jonathan said, turning to point. 'But on foot? I don’t know. You'd probably be better off – '

But Jonathan never got to explain about the town's various transportation options. No sooner had he turned his back than the three men sprang forward. Jonathan felt a sharp pinch at his neck, then he was slumping down to the ice.

The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was the Russian whispering, 'No worries, handsome. Get contracts, get revenge, home soon.'

When Jonathan came to it was night. He was lying trussed on a hard wooden surface – a hard wooden surface that was _moving_ , which worried him until he noticed the looming mast and sails. He was on the deck of a ship.

He was also apparently in great danger, given the heated conversation going on nearby.

' – promise we keep safe!'

' – never said anything about killing anyone, Steeger.'

'This is bigger than hockey contracts, boys. I hired you two to help me start a war. Yes, that scrap of sweater we left on the ice will make Count Bettman suspect that the Habs have abducted his precious prince, but when he finds his corpse on the shores of Montréal...'

'Shameful, I think. Not very buddies.' 

'I agree with the Breadman. This man is innocent.'

'No one is innocent, Hoss! You don't even know him. He probably… I don't know, just look at him. I bet he's mean to children and old people. And dogs. Definitely has the look of a puppy-kicker. But if it troubles your tender Slovakian soul so much, when the time comes, I will be the one to – 

'Artemi! Why do you keep doing that?'

'What?'

'Looking back.'

'Make sure no one follow us.'

'That would be inconceivable. They won't realize he's missing until dawn. But even if I'm wrong – also inconceivable – it's too soon for the count's men to have caught up with us.'

'Then who own boat with big red and black sails?'

'What? Where? Inconceivable!'

Jonathan had been keeping as still as possible, but when the three men rushed to the ship's stern he wriggled and flopped about until he was sitting up. If there really were a boat closing in… 

He knew shouting for help would get him killed sooner rather than later, but if he could slip overboard while the kidnappers were distracted, he thought he might be able to swim to shore or signal the other ship to pick him up.

First however, he needed to free himself. He was still wearing his skates, so he contorted himself into a position where he could drag the binding between his wrists against one blade. He was making decent progress when he heard footfalls, followed by a nasal laugh.

'That looks distinctly uncomfortable, Highness, but not as uncomfortable as you'd be in the river.' The one the others called Steeger emerged into a patch of moonlight and crouched down beside him, smiling. 'These waters are infested with those little parasitic fish that swim up your penis and devour it from the inside.'

Jonathan glared at him. 'That's just a myth.'

'Is it?'

'We're too far north, at any rate.'

'I'd be happy to tow you for a bit, let you find out. It's not like you'll be needing little Jonny after tomorrow.'

'You're a real jerk, anyone ever tell you that?'

Steeger smiled wider, then grabbed Jonathan and hoisted him up, propping him against the rail. 'Not since last Tuesday.'

'You'll never get away with this. The count will see you all hanged.'

'Oh I don’t think so, buddy. We'll be long gone by the time he finds you. Now, for the sake of science I'm not going to gag you, as I'd like to know the exact instant the penis fish attack, but – '

'No time for penis fish nonsense!' the Russian called out. 'Is boat for sure, and gaining on us.'

'Very fast,' the Slovak added. 'Must be expert sailors.'

'Inconceivable,' Steeger muttered, dumping Jonathan on the deck and striding away.

The kidnappers played a game of cat and mouse with the other ship throughout the night. They never left Jonathan alone again, though, and they tied rags around his skate blades, so even if he'd wanted to risk the penis-eating fish, he had no opportunity to escape.

He contented himself instead with chirping everything from their navigational skills to their personal grooming then, after Steeger blindfolded him and stuffed a rag in his mouth, silently cheering on their mysterious pursuers.

— _Hey, you falling asleep on me there? Jon?_

— **thumbs down/no**

— _You sure?_

— **thumbs down/no**

— _Trust you to nod off when your fictional junk is in peril. Um, okay, so boat chase, yeah, did that, then Steeger panics 'cause the mystery ship nearly catches up to them. He forces them to land by this giant cliff with a pulley lift. A lone man dressed all in red leaps out of the ship, swims to shore and makes to follow in their wake, climbing up the rock unaided. Steeger cuts the cables once they reach the top and sends the platform crashing down, but…_

'Inconceivable!' Steeger cried, peering over the cliff. 'He's still alive.'

'That word,' the Russian said, frowning. 'You always say, and this Man In Red, he always come. Think maybe wrong word.'

'Look. He's started climbing again,' the Slovak pointed out. 'Good arms. Very strong. I wonder why he's wearing a mask.'

'Probably ugly. Or too beautiful for own good. Make crazy all the maidens.'

'Don’t be ridiculous. Only thieves wear masks.'

'What about goalies?'

'And men who chop off heads?'

'I don't have time for this crap. Hoss, you grab the prince and come with me. Artemi, you chop off _his_ head if he reaches the top alive.'

'But I no have mask.'

'Chrissakes, you don't need a mask! Just…wait here. If he falls to his death, hip-fucking-hooray! If not, when he reaches the top you finish him off, any way you like. Kill. Murder. Make very dead. Got it?'

With that Steeger stomped off, muttering to himself about the cost of good help these days. Hoss patted Artemi's chest in solidarity, then slung Jonathan over his shoulder and followed Steeger up the path.

Artemi waited for three minutes, then five before boredom drove him back to the edge of the cliff. He lay down on his belly watching the Man In Red's progress, impressed by his athleticism and grace under pressure. 

— _You are not choking on anything but your own wounded ego right now, so stop that. Seriously. Or I'm telling all the nurses on shift you said they could come take selfies with you whenever they want._

Artemi thought Steeger's methods quite crude, and the longer he watched the Man In Red, the less he felt like it would be fair to simply lop off his head as soon as it appeared. Besides, he hadn't signed on to this job to kill anyone other than Count Bettman, who had once rendered his grandfather a terrible insult and was now holding Artemi's contract hostage along with all the others.

'Hey you!' Artemi called, perking up at a sudden thought. 'I don’t suppose you are Count Bettman?'

The Man In Red paused and looked up with a grimace. 'I'm guessing by your tone you have no love for the man.'

'He insult my grandfather. Take away hockey. Force me to work for Steeger.'

The Man In Red shook his head, clucking his tongue. 'A terrible fate, I'm sure. Well I swear to you, my friend, that were I that man, I would fling myself off this cliff and save you the trouble of killing me. I have no love for him either.'

'He insult your grandfather too?' 

'Probably. I hear he rubs everyone the wrong way. But at the moment I'm more pissed about something he's stolen from me, something I hold very dear, and which I fear he plans to put to ill use.'

'Shame Steeger want you dead,' Artemi sighed. 'Bet we make good team.'

'You could always… What is your name, by the way?'

'Artemi Panarin. Some call Breadman, I know not why.'

'Well, Artemi, you could always _not_ kill me.'

Artemi shook his head. 'Much trouble for me, I think.' But as the Man In Red climbed, Artemi got sadder and sadder about the idea of whacking him. Then he got another idea.

'Hey, you sailor boys know any hockey?' he called.

The Man In Red grinned up at him. 'Haven't seen real ice in a long time, but we're known to do a little stick-handling on the deck between shifts.'

'Is good! I know better way to settle this.'

Artemi leapt up and went to his bedroll, swapping out his sword for his grandfather's hockey stick. Then he scurried around, collecting various rocks and sticks and other debris and laying them out just so.

By the time the Man In Red gained the top of the cliff, Artemi was waiting with a smile on his face. 

'You catch breath. Then we have battle of stick skills. Winner stab loser through chest, face to face like honorable men.'

— _Don’t worry. I promise, no one's getting stabbed just yet. They both live._

— **N-O-T  W-O-R-R-I-E-D**

— _You looked horrified. Your brows did that thing, and your nose – or what I can see of it, anyway. You were totally worried for a moment there. But I assure you, though the Man In Red wins the competition, he refuses to kill Artemi because he can't stand to see all that skill and single-minded thirst for vengeance go to waste. Artemi thanks him, insisting that he take his grandfather's stick. The Man In Red then ties Artemi to a tree, so he has no obligation to follow, and sets off in pursuit of the others._

— **Y-A-W-N  W-H-A-T  A-B-O-U-T  M-E?**

— _Man, so rude! You really don’t want to hear about the Man In Red's puck possession battle-slash-wrestling match with Hoss or his epic rap battle-slash-drinking game with Steeger where he rhymes 'Calgary' with 'dead to me' and tricks him into doing double shots of mescal? Jess spilled wine on some of it but…what? I can't tell if you're laughing inside or trying to murder me with your brain._

— **U-R  S-O  V-A-I-N**

— _True, but...only about shit that matters, Jon._ Really _matters. I mean, it's not like I'm the one who went all Hulk Smash because some random assholes at a wedding reception were saying mean things about me liking dick. Yeah, no…I'll take the murder eyes over the stubborn puppy eyes any day, thanks very much. And if you shut down whatever the hell is going on in your head right now, I'll skip ahead to Prince Jonathan's rescue. Deal? Okay._

It's not that Jonathan wasn't grateful to be released from the cramped cave where Steeger had stashed him and have the blindfold and gag removed, but he got awfully grumpy when he hadn’t slept, and was probably, like, doubly or triply so coming off a kidnapping, being manhandled all over the countryside, and threatened with mutilation by penis fish – followed by death.

So the first thing that came out of his mouth when he finally saw his rescuer – a muscular fellow dressed all in red, including a silk headscarf and bright scarlet leather boots, gloves and mask; even his moustache and beard were reddish – was an aggressive, 'Who the fuck are you?' 

'No one you wanna mess with,' the man said harshly, cutting the bonds around Jonathan's legs, then starting in on unlacing his swaddled skates. 'That's all you need to know.'

Jonathan noticed Steeger sprawled motionless on the ground. 'Is he…? You don’t expect me to believe you actually killed him with your words.'

'You can believe whatever you like, _Highness_ , only know that I expect you to do as I say if you want to live. Right now, we need to go, so get those off your feet and your fat ass in motion.'

Jonathan couldn't bear to abandon his skates – useless as they were in his current situation, they were a link to the one thing that brought him some measure of happiness – so he tied the laces together and hung them around his neck. The Man In Red snorted, but made no comment other than, 'C'mon. This way, let's fucking go.'

He set a punishing pace, half-running at times, prodding Jonathan along with the hilt of his sword or the butt of the stick, yanking him up by the ropes on his wrists when he stumbled. 

'If you let me go,' Jonathan panted, 'whatever ransom you wish, you'll get it. I promise.'

The Man In Red stopped suddenly, jerking Jonathan around to face him. 'And what's that worth, the promise of a fake-ass prince?'

'Look, I'm just trying to give you a chance here. No matter where you're taking me… Count Bettman doesn't give things up easily, and he can afford the best trackers in the land. He'll find you.'

'Oho! You think your precious love will save you? Not once we're back on the water. My ship is the fastest around.'

'Never said he was my love,' Jonathan spat out, drawing himself up to his full height. 'But, yes, he will find me. On land or water, it makes no difference. He's invested too much in this union to risk my loss.'

The Man in Red took a step back, tilting his head. 'You admit you do not love this man, that he treats you like prize livestock, and yet you're gonna marry him?'

Jonathan shrugged. 'He knows I do not love him.'

'Are a cold, heartless bastard is what you mean. I doubt you're even capable of love.'

'How dare you?' Jonathan said, hands curling into fists. 'I've loved more deeply, known a truer bond than a killer like yourself could ever dream.'

The Man in Red stepped up with a sneer, cocking his fist. Jonathan flinched, but he didn’t back down.

'That's a warning, asshole,' said the Man In Red, shoving at Jonathan instead. 'Where I come from…amongst my crew, there are penalties for lies and betrayal.'

'I know who you are now,' Jonathan said, narrowing his eyes. 'Cocky, cruel, foul-mouthed. In possession of the so-called fastest ship on these waters. That's the _Blackhawk,_ which makes you the Dread Pirate Quenneville, admit it!'

The Man In Red let out a strangled laugh and backed off, making a deep, mocking bow. 'Indeed, sir. How may I be of service?'

'Fuck off and die slowly, a thousand needles stuck in your eyes.'

'Ouch. And I'm the cruel, foul-mouthed one here?'

'You murdered him,' Jonathan said softly. Then, louder, "You murdered my beloved. His ship was attacked by yours on Lake Superior.'

The Man In Red straightened up, watching Jonathan for a long moment. He gave his beard a good scratch. 'It's possible. I try to avoid it when I can – as with Steeger back there; he'll be mostly alright once he sleeps off the mescal – but killing's inevitable in this business. Tell me, was this beloved of yours another rich, toady, dickbreath noble like Bettman?'

'No, he was a seasonal farm worker. Poor, but clever. Good with his hands. He had a killer smile and the prettiest blue eyes, and he knew how to make me laugh. I miss him every day.'

'Ha! I'll fucking bet.' The Man In Red shook his fist at Jonathan, then began pacing, looking off in the distance. 'Tell me, when you heard he was dead did you get engaged to the richest asshole you could find within the hour, or did you wait a few days out of respect? Maybe you spent a few years slutting it up in the capital first, sowing your wild oats amongst the townsfolk, and – '

'That's horseshit! You don't know the first thing about me.'

'Clearly neither did he,' the Man In Red shot back, 'or else we wouldn’t be here. Now, enough chatter. Keep moving.'

They trudged along in silence as the sun rose higher in the sky. Jonathan's wrists were chafed and his feet hurt, but his rising anger eclipsed all other pain. All he could see in his mind was Patrick as he'd last seen him, with his end-of-summer tan and his lopsided grin, so confident in their plans, so excited to share his joy with his family. That anyone could just snuff that out without a second thought, it was beyond cruel. 

The vague track they'd been following began to climb steeply along the edge of a ravine. Jonathan could feel the sweat beading on his brow and sliding down his neck. The Man In Red allowed them to pause and, after drinking deeply from it himself, offered Jonathan his waterskin.

'I promise it's not mescal,' he said gruffly.

Jonathan shook his head. 'I want nothing from you.'

'Suit yourself.' The Man In Red shrugged, glancing behind them as he tucked the waterskin back in his bag. 'This farm boy of yours, I think I remember him. Calm. Quiet. Never trembled or tried to bargain for his life, just looked me straight in the eye and said, "Please, sir, I need to live." 

'When I asked him why, he said, "Love, sir. True, epic love. The kind they'll tell stories about long after we're gone." Then he spoke about a handsome boy, humble, hard-working and incredibly loyal – I can only assume he meant you – to whom he was bonded through pinky swear _and_ spit handshake. You should probably thank me for killing him before he found out how quickly you'd break such promises, how shallow and faithless you'd turn out to be.'

Jonathan had had enough. 'I will not stand for such mockery,' he shouted. 'A part of me _died_ that day…and you can die too, for all I care!'

With that he crouched low and charged at the Man In Red, shoulder-checking him hard in the gut. They teetered on the edge of the ravine, then Jonathan flung himself back and the Man In Red began to fall, tumbling head over heels down the slope.

His voice drifted up as he fell, but it took Jonathan a moment to be sure what he was hearing, because it sounded an awful lot like…

'Suuuure Jonnnny. Whatever you saaaaaaaaay!'

'Patrick?' Jonathan whispered. 'Is that really….? Shit, what have I done?' Then, clinging to his skates so they wouldn't bash him in the face, Jonathan launched himself down the slope.

It was not a pretty affair. They were both going to have bruises for weeks, but by some miracle neither of them snapped anything vital. As soon as Jonathan could move again he crawled over towards the red-clad figure and saw, with the mask now gone and the headscarf askew, that it was indeed Patrick. Older and wearier, with five years of facial hair and fighting muscle on him, but still the best thing that Jonathan had ever seen.

'Is it really you?' he asked, just to make sure his mind wasn't playing tricks on him.

Patrick groaned, pushing up onto his elbow and prodding at a cut on his cheek. 'Minus a few chunks, but yeah.' They eyed one another up warily. Then Patrick sighed and held his arms out, and Jonathan fell into them with a sob of relief.

'I told you I'd come back, Jonny. Why didn't you wait for me?'

Jonathan left off his neck-nuzzling and cautious exploration of the beard. He pulled back to look Patrick in the eye, saying, 'Um. Babe. How hard did you hit your head? You were _dead_.'

'How hard did you hit yours? I _told_ you, remember? No man, no maiden, not even Death himself can keep us apart. Nothing's stronger than the power of true, epic love backed up by a pinky swear and a spit handshake.'

'Sorry, I… Death tends to be pretty final in my family, Pat, so I guess I thought that last part was just a figure of speech.'

'Well now you know better.'

'Hey, that's…' For the first time in years, Jonathan felt a laugh bubbling up. He quelled it against Patrick's lips, smile to smile, whispering, 'That's my line, farm boy.'

— _And, whoa, yeah, I forgot about…. Maybe we'll end it there for today._

— **?**

— _It's all that romantic kissyface crap you say you don't like, then all downhill from there. Not literally, obviously, as they've already fallen down the big hill, but plot-wise it gets pretty painful._

— **P-A-I-N  I-S  W-E-A-K-N-E-S-S  L-E-**

— _Leaving the body. Yeah, heard that one before. Bit rich coming from a guy pumped full of painkillers, though. And I don’t think it applies to stories._

— **I WANT: more**

— _Pain medicine?_

— **thumbs down/no…S-T-O-R-Y…W-H-A-T  H-A-P-P-E-N-S  N-E-X-T?**

— _There's a whole lot of making out while trying to avoid aggravating anyone's injuries. Pretty sure I threw in some leg-humping just to gross Jess and Erica out. Then the count's men arrive up above. Our heroes realize they're trapped. The only way out is to go through the Frozen Swamp, which is full of G.O.O.N.s, rogue Zamboni and patches of rotten ice. But, you know, Jonathan's got his skates and his will to succeed, Patrick has his sword and Artemi's grandpa's stick, and they're high on the power of true love, so they battle through mostly unscathed while Patrick explains that by now the_ Blackhawk _should be moored near the far end of the swamp._

— **A-N-D?  K-E-E-P  R-E-A-D**

— _Someone needs to add a 'Please' box on that thing, right there between 'I Love You' and 'Thank You.' Just because you can't talk shouldn't excuse you from basic manners. And I see you there with your sneaky thumb, Jonny, but it doesn't count if you don’t pick one or the other and I know you're only trying to manipulate me. So…_

'As you may have guessed, I am not the original Dread Pirate Quenneville,' Patrick said, spearing a G.O.O.N. in the gut and sending him spinning across the ice. 'What I told you was mostly true. Our ship was attacked by the _Blackhawk_ and I did say those things to Quenneville. Something about it moved him, I guess, as did my descriptions of you. He spared my life and took me on as a rookie seaman. 

'He and his crew taught me to sail, to fence and fight and stomach mescal. Even played a little deck hockey. We grew to be fast friends, and one day he called me into his cabin and admitted that _he_ was not the original Dread Pirate Quenneville, but a guy called Sharpy, and that the man he'd inherited the name from wasn't Quenneville either, but a lovely fellow named Brian. As far as he knew, the original Quenneville and all those that came after were now happily retired. He had more treasure than he knew what to do with and a wife he longed to see more often, so he figured it was his turn to retire and pass the name onto someone else. That someone was me. And here we are.'

And in this case, 'here' meant 'through the Frozen Swamp,' as they had indeed made it to the far side. Unfortunately, however, Count Bettman wasn't stupid. As soon as he'd seen the pair plunge into the swamp he'd dispatched his fastest riders to the far end by another route. 

Patrick put on a magnificent display of bravado, shouting about standing their ground and living quite happily in a shack in the Frozen Swamp for years to come – where anyone could drop in for a spot of ass-kicking any time they liked – but Jonathan saw how exhausted he was. He also saw the count's men fanning out around them, crossbows at the ready, and knew better than most of Bettman's determination to have Jonathan all for himself. 

Thinking it a better option than watching Patrick shot or hanged for piracy, he clapped a hand over his mouth and held him tight in a bear hug while he tried to negotiate with the count's men. At that point the count himself arrived, and promised to return Patrick to his ship unharmed with guaranteed safe passage down to Lake Ontario if Jonathan would return to the castle without any fuss.

— **?!? thumbs down/no**

— _See, I told you it was shitty. After all I've been through for you, you go and betray me again._

— **I  W-O-U-L-D  N-E-V-E-R**

— _Oh? Not even if you thought you were protecting me, doing what you thought was right? Yeah, look at your face, Jonny. There's some irony right there. But to be fair, you do make a good speech about it. Here…_

'I thought you were dead once,' Jonathan said, gripping Patrick by the shoulders. 'It broke my heart, nearly destroyed me entirely. I will not be the cause of your final death, not when I can ensure that you leave here unmolested with all your treasure.'

— _Unmolested. Christ. Jess and her fucking thesaurus app. We tried taking her phone away, but… Yeah, I think that's when most of the spillage occurred. But don't worry. This is just the rough draft. We were gonna print and bind it before Christmas, with cover art and everything. They're fighting over whether to ask Crow or Darls._

— **U-R  A-L-L  I-N-S-A-N-E**

— _No, but - confession time - we were high when we started it. Found your old emergency stash while we were scoping out the new closets for a...well, we were gonna prank you for the housewarming, but Jacks thought it served you right if we smoked all your weed instead. They were still salty about that interview, thought you were trying too hard to distance yourself, playing the perfect kissass franchise pawn, acting like the whole 'You Can Play' thing was important, but not especially relevant to you or your team, when they knew –_

— **I WANT: pen/paper**

— _Yeah? Okay, I think there's a…here you go._

— ** _I'm sorry. Not my proudest moment. Not tonight either. Need to work on how I deal with that shit off the ice, esp with ppl who know our families, friends_**

— _You think?_

— ** _Thought we were in a safe space. But I guess we'll never really know._**

— _No, guess not. But. Damn, Toews, if it's safe spaces you're after, maybe try not breaking the doors? Especially not with your face. And I know I said scars give you character, but there's character and then there's looking like you tried making out with Freddy Krueger._

— ** _Shut it. And it'd be Wolverine. I'd make out with him._**

— _You would, wouldn't you. Narcissist._

— ** _Funny. So, you going to tell me how this trippy tale ends, or do I have to write my own?_**

— _Oh, right. Well, long story short, turns out Count Bettman is a conniving bag of dicks – surprise surprise – and instead of returning Patrick to his ship, he tosses him in the Pit of Despair where he's tortured nearly to death. He also learns that Bettman is the one who hired Steeger through a middle-man, as he secretly wants an excuse to invade Québec and take over all their hockey teams like he'd done throughout the rest of Canadia. Since that plot failed, he decides to kill Jonathan himself on their wedding night and frame it on the famed Habs' sharpshooter Lord Weber._

— ** _Just how high were you?_**

— _Incredibly. So high I ate an entire bucket of those spicy tofu whatsits and thought it was KFC._

— ** _You can't tell but I am laughing at you so hard rn. AT you not with you_**

— _Whatever you need to tell yourself. So, yeah, meanwhile, Artemi and Hoss have ditched Versteeg 'cause they finally see how lame he is, and Hoss promises to help Artemi find the Man In Red, who he's convinced – by the transitive property of duelling awesomeness – is now the only man who can help him get revenge on Bettman. They rescue Patrick and bring him to Duncs and Seabs, Miracle Workers, who –_

— ** _Revive him with fruit &crap?_**

— _How did you…? Damn. But it's_ magic _fruit and crap, just so you know, as Duncs and Seabs are hedge warlocks, and on the night of the wedding, they all storm the castle. Panarin challenges Bettman to a duel over his grandfather's honor. While he's distracted, Patrick goes to free Jonathan, who it turns out has already freed himself, but has been hanging around his own wedding-slash-murder night as he was worried about what might happen to the old king and queen and too polite to tell the doddering priest to fuck off and go marry people who actually wanted it._

— _Meanwhile, Duncs and Seabs break into the treasury and grab all the hockey contracts and club ownership papers while Hoss rounds up some getaway horses. It gets ugly when reinforcements arrive from the barracks and there's a lot of stabbing and shouting and wigs being set on fire, but eventually they do escape, and… Here, let me just read the end._

By dawn their trials were over. They rode to freedom – at more of a slow trot than a gallop, as everyone was really gassed by this point, and bleeding from various wounds. As the sun rose, they all looked at one another and grinned. All around them, the people of Canadia were waking up. The sesquicentennial celebrations would soon begin, and our heroes' first order of the day was to tear down the toll barriers around the Canal of Sorrows, so that all might skate there freely once more.

And after that, well, Jonathan knew of a quiet farm, Patrick knew of a fast ship filled with treasure, and there were now several newly-emancipated hockey teams that would need good men to lead them.

They rode off into their possible futures with their heads bent together, arguing and teasing one another, just as they'd done when they were younger. When Jonathan paused mid-sentence, saying, 'Oh shit, I think I got married last night!' Patrick just lifted an eyebrow.

'Did you say "I do"?'

'Um, no. I think we skipped that part. Bettman was in a hurry. He heard you storming the castle.'

'Then you’re not married.' He reached over and socked Jonathan in the shoulder. 'Boom. Problem solved.'

'Thank god.'

'No, thank Hossa for finding these horses and lining them up under the right window.'

'Him too.'

And they all lived. Not forever, but long enough to have lots of sex and hockey and grand adventures. And children if anyone were so inclined. The End.

— _Well?_

— ** _Awww babe that's actually nice_**

— _Don’t 'aw' me, mister. Erica insisted on the kids thing._

— ** _She would_**

— _Oh god don't I know it. The one good thing to come out of all of this? Apparently your epic gallantry fail saved me from a plot to make sure I ended up with the bouquet._

— ** _! Can't have that. Enough with all the Kane weddings, cuts into training time_**

— _Yep. Well, you know what I always say, not until Jonny does._

— ** _Not EVER I hope. Unless_**

— _Unless?_

— ** _You know_**

— _What's that now?_

— ** _Unless it's me_**

— _Sure, Jonny. Whatever you say._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Not that you asked, but yes, of course Patrick and his sisters made up all the ridiculous raps and included them as an appendix in the final, bound version of the story (Crow got the cover, Darls got the title page and various other teammates were given margin-doodling rights). The woodcutting one is called "The LumberPat Rap", and begins with the unfortunate lines: _Trees tremble when they see Patrick/knowing they'll soon be matchsticks/with this hatchet I slay/yelling 'timber' all day/whether you an oak or a bay/maple or pine, all mine/splitting logs down to size/saplings you better get wise/before I make you my beeches/no I can't teach this/you can't even reach this/level of lumberjack skill you/better stick to your lettuce and dill…_
> 
> 2\. There was much debate about who'd get Vizzini's role, but in the end it went to Versteeg due to his goofy singing/rapping and charming ongoing dedication to chirping Jonathan Toews.
> 
> 3\. I'm sorry about all of this. Especially if you've never seen this film. Or maybe especially if you _have._ :P
> 
> 4\. Yes, Duncs and Seabs were the ones responsible for putting the perma-freeze on the Canal of Sorrows while on a youthful bender. They could never figure out exactly how they did it, nor how to reverse the spell, so instead they said 'What the hell, eh?' and started offering free skating lessons to the local children whenever the miracle business was slow.
> 
> 5\. Don't worry, Jonathan's face heals up just fine. His pride, however... Let's just say that he will forever grimace and turn a lovely shade of embarrassed when little stickers appear on the plate glass and patio doors of wherever he and Patrick are staying. Sometimes they are dinosaur stickers, and then it's a toss-up between being embarrassed and secretly*, overwhelmingly fond, which - let's face it - it more or less the status quo where Pat is concerned.
> 
> *He only _thinks_ it's secret. The rest of us know better.


End file.
